Truth echoes in the way he walks
in size 8’s down sophomore hallways.
Imprinted on kitchen linoleum is
ink of mud-soup,
rain’s afterthought.
Four hours of rest
and caffeine revitalize
the chronically occupied youth.
A slumped spine requests assumptions
from geriatrics, neighbors and teachers.
“You are trouble. It’s in the way you walk.”
He was read by his cover when he should have been read by the soles of his shoes
worn thinnest by where they have been.
All the while,
they are ready for where they will take him.
Size 8’s 5 a.m. lace-up is a
sacred ritual to old school hip-hop.
It gives breath to his memory
of a house once whole.

School & chemistry tutoring – typical teenage type.
Bright eyes pumped with promise.
Brilliant-brained and loving.
The closing bell is his alarm.
The #11 bus to work
will lead him home by
11 on the dot
to be mother & father
to a table of three
for rice the third time this week.
Hands are held and eyes are closed.
Grace, and
“What are we thankful for?”
“Each other.”
Man is measured by the way he walks
when he should be measured by the load he carries.